The Lost King

by Margaret Weis

  Dixter took the proffered case, laid it down on the table. Dion leaned over and punched in a combination on the locking device. There was a click, a whir, and the case's lid opened. Inside were a few sheets of paper, bearing the official letterhead of the Republic, and a computer disk. Lifting the papers, the general began to read.

  Tusk, watching the man's face, saw the flesh around the hoes sag and grow haggard, the skin go pale beneath its weathered tan. Eaten alive by curiosity, barely able to contain his impulse to snatch up the papers, Tusk tried to contain himself by swallowing a large gulp of coffee. He'd forgotten it was hot and yelped in pain, the steaming liquid burning his throat, tongue, and the roof of his mouth. The mercenary hastily covered his mouth, but the general never looked up.

  Dixter's coffee gradually grew cool. He didn't notice, didn't touch it. He read the papers carefully—there were only three; Sagan was always concise—and then replaced them carefully in the case.

  "So that's what's been going on." The general picked up the disk, but made no move to insert it into his computer. He tapped the disk against the top of his desk.

  "Please, sir, what's been going on?" Tusk pleaded.

  "Two days ago, we intercepted a series of distress signals being sent from a remote system on the fringes to any warships in the vicinity. They were in code; we couldn't make out what was being said or where it came from. And then they ceased. Shortly after that, there was a flurry of transmissions from the Phoenix back to headquarters. Again in code, but one of our operators, who used to serve aboard the battleship Diana, said she thought Phoenix was in direct contact with the President himself."

  "Yes, sir," Dion said. "As you see in the report, it's all there. What the President said—"

  "What's all there? Sir, for God's sake—"

  "The Corasians, Tusk," Dixter answered. "They've invaded the galaxy. They've attacked and taken Shelton's system. Sagan believes that they're preparing for an all-out assault on the galaxy. He thinks they'll strike this direction next. The War lord has been ordered by President Robes to make a stand and, if unable to stop the enemy here, then he is to do as much damage to them as possible."

  "Holy shit," Tusk said reverently and with awe.

  "Lord Sagan"—the general's voice was expressionless, impassive—"has asked for our help."

  Tusk scowled. Reaching for his coffee, his hand jerked and he spilled it over his legs. "Hah! That explains it, then. It's a trap, sir."

  "No, it isn't!" Dion protested earnestly. "Lady Maigrey saw them in a vision! Lord Sagan could have killed her, but he didn't because of the invasion! You have to believe me, sir!"

  "I believe you, son. I heard the distress calls myself."

  Dixter lapsed into silence. He kept tapping the disk on the table. It was the only sound in the night. Snick, tap, snick. Tusk, gritting his teeth, thought he might crawl out of his skin if that noise didn't stop.

  Dixter rose slowly to his feet. The space heater was pumping out hot air and it was growing uncomfortably warm in the small office. Without thinking of what he was doing, the general switched on a fan, and stood staring out the window, into the night.

  Dion prodded. "Lord Sagan wants to meet with you, sir, to discuss the alliance. It has to be soon. We have a little time, he thinks, but not much. All the details, statistics, everything he knows about the enemy force is on that disk. The meeting can take place on this planet, anywhere you choose. Lady Maigrey will be there."

  "She will?" Dixter turned his head around, looked at the young man over his shoulder. The fan whirred softly.

  Tusk was on his feet. Going over to stand near the general, he spoke in a low undertone. "Sir, he's wearing one of those damn swords. You saw the marks in his hand. I know something about them; my father had one. It can do weird things to your brain—"

  Dion stood up. His face was pale, resolute. "General Dixter, sir, I want to tell you something. You and Tusk, both."

  The men turned to face him, Dixter's expression thoughtful, Tusk scowling and unhappy.

  "I know who I am, sir. I have a last name. It's Starfire."

  Dixter nodded. Tusk coughed and started to make some remark, but the general halted him with a slight gesture.

  "That means that I'm king. The people in this galaxy are my people, my responsibility, given to me by God. I can't, I won't allow them to be hurt without doing everything I possibly can to protect them!"

  King! Of what? That square foot of floor space you're standing on, maybe! Grow up! Get real! Tusk wanted to laugh out loud, laugh long and bitterly, and put an end to this. But the laughter never made it past his gut. He saw the young man's face, saw the intensity in the bright blue eyes, heard the earnest, serious tone in the hopelessly young voice. Tusk felt the flame, felt the fire.

  "I don't believe this!" The mercenary plopped down in Dixter's chair and glared at everyone in range. "I don't believe any of this!" But he did, and that was the problem.

  The general laid a hand on Tusk's shoulder, its firm grip comforting. Dixter's words, however, were to Dion.

  "There's one thing I don't understand, Your—" the general paused; he'd almost said Your Majesty and meant it— "er . . . young man. How can Lord Sagan be so certain the Corasians are going to strike out in this direction?" He waved a hand at the stars. "There's a million other possible routes—"

  "I think Lord Sagan had better explain that to you himself, sir." Dion flushed. "I sat in on the discussion, but I really don't understand. Will you, at least, agree to a meeting, sir?"

  Dixter said nothing. The fan whirred. The heater pumped out hot air. The general absentmindedly opened a window. Cold wind flowed into the room.

  Turning, Dixter gave Dion a sudden, sharp, quizzical look. "Lady Maigrey must have sent me a message. What did she say?"

  Dion licked his lips. "It's kind of strange, sir. Not, perhaps, what you might suppose—"

  "Dion, her message."

  "Sir, she said"—the young man shrugged—"to remember the human impersonator on Laskar."

  The general switched off the fan. Tusk, sitting at the desk in his shirtsleeves, had goose bumps on his black skin.

  "I'll agree to the meeting."

  Dion looked startled, then relieved, then elated. "You will, sir? Where? When?"

  "Tomorrow. 1200 hours." Dixter walked over to a map, studied it, and put his finger on a spot. "Here. Take down the coordinates." He read off longitude and latitude.

  Dion repeated them excitedly. "I have them. I won't forget. I'll go back now and tell him . . . and Lady Maigrey. Goodbye, sir. And thank you! Thank you!" He shook Dixter's hand heartily. "Tusk? You'll be there tomorrow, won't you?"

  The mercenary didn't look up. "Yeah, tomorrow."

  Dion gazed at him worriedly, a frown creasing his forehead. He started to reach out, to touch him, but Dixter shook his bead. "Hell be all right, son. Just give him time. You better go. The Warlord will be waiting for you."

  "Yes, sir. You're right. I'll go. Thank you again, sir."

  Dion, with a last glance behind him at Tusk, saluted— correctly, this time—and left the office. "Good-bye, Bennett. It was good to see you again."

  They heard Bennett's cool, correct reply, the door opening and closing. The aide peered in.

  "Do you need anything, sir?"

  "Enter this into the computer, Bennett," Dixter said, handing him the disk. "No hurry. Let me know when I can call it up. And arrange for a meeting of all pilots at 0600."

  "Yes, sir." Bennett glanced at Tusk, slumped over the desk. The aide raised his eyebrows questioningly. Dixter shook his head, and Bennett, taking the disk, left.

  Outside, through the open window, came the sounds of a spaceplane preparing for takeoff.

  Tusk looked up. "What the devil does a human impersonator have to do with this?"

  "Interesting." Dixter mused. "An interesting message. I wonder ..."

  "Sir?"

  "The human impersonator of Laskar was an alien with an obsession about b
eing human. It hated us and at the same time longed to be one of us. This obsession degenerated into madness. The alien had the ability to shift its form. It would become human in appearance and entice humans—men and women both—into having sex with it. In the middle of the act, the alien would change back to its original body. It was so loathsome and hideous that its victims would sometimes kill themselves rather than have to live with the knowledge that they'd been making love to a grotesque and horrible monster."

  Tusk shook his head, too muddled to try to understand, wondering obliquely what this said about the general's sexual habits.

  "Kind of a strange message, isn't it, sir?" Tusk spoke guardedly. Glancing around, he hoped to catch sight of the brandy bottle. "From a woman you haven't seen in years?"

  The general smiled. "No, not really. She's just letting me know who I'm climbing into bed with."

  Tusk gave up the search. Suddenly, he understood.

  "Sir," he said in a low voice, "we could always snatch the kid away from him—"

  Leaning on the windowsill, Dixter stared out into the night, at Dion's spaceplane, soaring into the darkness in a shower of flame.

  "Keep away from him, Tusk. Keep back ... or you'll get burned."

  "Begging your pardon, sir, but it's already hotter'n hell."

  The general grinned. Turning from the window, he fumbled in a pocket, pulled out a key, and tossed it to the mercenary. "Third drawer on your left. We'll drink a toast." He waited until Tusk pulled out the bottle, wiped out two glasses with the tail of his shirt, and poured. Dixter raised his glass. "I give you His Majesty. God save the king."

  Tusk scowled. "That's not funny, sir."

  "I didn't mean it to be."

  Tusk held the glass in his hand, stared into it, then suddenly slammed it down on the desk. Brandy slopped over the rim, flooding a map. "Excuse me, sir. I got a lot to do."

  He flung open the door and stormed out, nearly knocking down Bennett, whose eyebrows shot up to the crown of his bald head.

  "Sir," the aide said, "I've input that file you wanted. You'll find it under 'Sagan.'"

  "Thank you, Bennett. That will be all."

  "Yes, sir."

  The aide left, gently closing the door. Dixter lifted his glass to the heavens and silently drained it.

  Chapter Five

  Love bade me welcome, but my soul drew back . . .

  George Herbert, "Love"

  For the meeting between the mercenaries and the Warlord, Dixter had chosen the site of an old deserted fortress built into the top of a cliff on a part of Vangelis considered desolate even for that barren planet.

  "It's a remnant of early stellar exploration," commented Lord Sagan, emerging from the shuttlecraft and staring up at it through the swirling dust. "The fortress is somewhat of a mystery to archaeologists. The planet was lifeless when humans first discovered it. Why, then, did those early explorers feel the desperate need to build this gigantic fortress? Who did they think they were protecting themselves against?" He gestured. From horizon to horizon, the land was empty. "There was nothing out there to attack them."

  "Why did they, then?" Maigrey asked, accepting his arm to aid her steps over the rough and uneven terrain.

  "The only explanation the scientists can come up with is that the explorers were seized by a collective madness—a group paranoia. This theory has received support from rather sinister evidence. It appears that—locked inside their safe fortress— the explorers proceeded to slaughter each other."

  "I can understand why," Maigrey murmured, pausing to look around.

  The wind howled and shrieked and tore at the hood covering her head. Dust devils raced each other across a barren rock floor, orange clouds scudded across a cobalt blue sky. No wonder those early explorers, coming from years of living in a sterile, controlled, and protected environment, had imagined demon hordes massing to attack them and, after years in this forbidding and wind-blasted place, had found the demons in their own minds.

  Sagan cleared his throat. Touched neither by beauty nor awed by desolation, he was impatient to get on with business. Checking a sigh, Maigrey clutched the hood of her cloak, cursed the long velvet skirts that were tangling her feet, and struggled forward against the wind.

  Steep and narrow stairs, cut into the side of the fortress's rock wall, led up into the fortress proper. At the top of the stairs, Dion stood, waiting to meet them. He must be tired, Maigrey thought. He had returned to the ship after his meeting with Dixter, made arrangements with the Warlord, and then flown back to finalize the details with the mercenaries. It was unlikely he'd had a chance to sleep in the span of a ship's day and night. But if he were fatigued, she could see no outward sign beyond a slight translucence of the marble complexion that made the blue veins beneath his eyes stand out more clearly. The wind tossed his red-golden hair, a bright flare of color against the gray stone walls. It seemed as if a flaming torch lit their way.

  "My lady. My lord. Captain Williams. General Dixter and his party are waiting your arrival, my lord. If you will follow me. My lady?"

  Dion held out his arm. Maigrey accepted it, and he led the way into a colonnade whose stone columns cut the wind and provided shade from the hot sun while still allowing the paranoid observer the opportunity of keeping watch on the barren land around him. Sagan's party traversed this porch for a lengthy distance, Dion and Maigrey leading, Lord Sagan and Captain Williams following behind, and the eternal Guard of Honor rhythmically marching in the rear.

  "Where's Captain Nada?" Dion whispered out of the side of his mouth.

  "He was taken ill last night," Maigrey answered, her face hidden by the folds of her brown cloak. "A very sudden illness, but one that was not, I believe, totally unexpected."

  Dion stared at her, shocked, then cast an oblique glance back at the Warlord. "You mean—"

  "'You bets ver money and you takes yer chance.' Nada backed the wrong horse."

  "What?"

  "Nothing, Dion. Never mind."

  The colonnade led them through a series of arched doorways that took them deeper into the fortress. It was cool, out of the sun, and quiet, away from the incessantly shrieking wind. Dion brought them to a doorway larger than the rest and halted.

  "If you will wait here, my lord," he said, "I will announce you."

  Sagan waved his hand; he was involved in a conversation with Captain Williams. Maigrey, left alone, removed the hood from her head and shook out her hair, wishing she'd thought to bring a mirror and a hairbrush. Such things never occurred to her until it was too late. She was anxiously doing her best to smooth down her pale, fine hair and shake the dust from her cloak when she caught Sagan's eye. A crimson flush mantled her face. She was primping like a girl before her first date.

  Her hand went to the scar on her cheek, and she was disappointed in herself to discover her heartbeat increasing; the fingers against her skin were chill, her face burning.

  John's an old friend. Just an old friend. It's been seventeen years, after all. I've changed. Her hand touched the scar. He's changed, too. Probably married, with ten kids. . . .

  Dion returned. He had hold of her arm and was leading her somewhere. Maigrey had an indistinct impression of a large room and movement: numerous people—humans and aliens— rising to their feet from around an oblong wooden table. But it was all a blur because he was standing in front of her and his eyes were on her and he had changed, but then again, he hadn't. He took her hand in his and bowed low and she must remember who and where she was and so she could only squeeze his fingers tightly and say with her eyes what she wanted very much to say aloud.

  Sagan and the general were being introduced as strangers; easier far than sorting out the tangled relationships of years past, trying to explain them to most of those present. Any constraint and coolness present between them could be put down to a very natural distrust and antipathy between those who represented—ostensibly—law and order and those who represented defiance. All very ironic, considering Sag
an's ambitious designs.

  One person managed to distract Maigrey's thoughts from John Dixter, and that was a young man introduced to her as Tusk. He came into focus sharply. He was not much like his father in his build—Danha Tusca had been a heavy-set, broad-shouldered man. Maigrey remembered meeting Dan-has wife, once, long ago, and saw that the young man took after her—slim, fine-boned, well-developed muscles filling out a compact frame. Tusca lacked his father's resolute and solid presence, too. There was trouble in the young man and, noting the eight-pointed star he wore displayed prominently in his left earlobe and the concerned and frowning glances he darted at Dion, Maigrey guessed she knew some of what was gnawing at him.

  Introductions performed—everyone cooly polite if not exactly cordial—those present took places around the table by order of rank. The Honor Guard posted themselves at the door. Maigrey found herself seated at the bottom of the table, far from the general, which was probably just as well for the presence of mind of both of them.

  The meeting opened with the Warlord going over the situation, describing the Corasian attack on Shelton's system, emphasizing—Maigrey noted—the horrors inflicted on an innocent populace. He told the mercenaries precisely what he knew of the enemy's plans, and informed the general of the President's order that the Warlord put himself and his men "in harm's way."

  Sagan's manner was condescending, contemptuous; he might have been here to clap them all in irons, rather than asking for their help to save his life. Maigrey saw the mercenaries' reactions—lips tighten, brows darken, alien tentacles coil in anger. But John Dixter was relaxed, listening attenively, his face softening into a wry smile. She breathed easier. He knew Sagan; he understood what this was costing the man.

  There was some angry muttering when the Warlord concluded, but none of the mercenaries spoke, all waiting for their commander to reply. Dixter sat silently, contemplatively for several moments, his eyes fixed on Sagan. The Warlord's gaze was on the general, each attempting to see how far he could penetrate into the other's skull.

  "Your report was most thorough and concise, Lord Sagan," Dixter said suddenly, never taking his eyes from the Warlord. "I have only one question. How is it that you are so certain the Corasians will attack at this point in the galaxy?"